


Metamorphose

by SkyborneVeggies



Series: En Masse [3]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Angst, Frenemies, Historical Hetalia, Internalized Homophobia, Oscar Wilde - Freeform, Period-Typical Homophobia, Pseudoromance, Subtext
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-24
Updated: 2015-01-24
Packaged: 2019-04-24 14:24:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 462
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14357319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SkyborneVeggies/pseuds/SkyborneVeggies
Summary: As the trials of Oscar Wilde come to a close, France watches as England struggles to reconcile the two voices of his morality.Consensus-verse.Originally posted on ff.net in April 2014





	Metamorphose

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by "Metamorphosis" by Philip Glass.

_25 May 1895_

* * *

"You look tired, mon ami."

England scoffs ever so slightly at this, somehow managing to secrete a condescending tone. After all, it's not a lie. England's hair is mussed and disheveled, dark purple circles stained under his eyes like blackened fingerprints.  _He is unwell_. There is an earnest frailty in this, and France is struck by an abrupt desire to paint him, in all his coarse, decrepit glory, before the image fades away.  _But there are more important things now to be done._

"...Is... is there a despair in your country?" The words fall timidly from his lips, wary, as if he's afraid to admit he might actually possess the humility be concerned. But he needn't have worried, he realizes now. Honesty, between them, is rarely an assumed position, and his companion would never accept it.

England refuses to look at him, gazing instead into the horizon as soft, delicate waves of setting sunlight dance across his visage. Nobody speaks, and France revels in the beauty of his brokenness.

The silence lingers for a while, and England breaks it only with the faintest of voices. "Oscar Wilde was convicted today."

" _Ah_." And then France understands. Because  _England_  is fine, that's not what has eaten him. No,  _t_ _his_  pain is mortal, simple,  _human_ , and it hurts France all the more this way. Because it was fine when he thought it was England. He doesn't care about England. If England is obdurate, stone-hearted and cruel, then France is to a voracious leech, feeding gluttonously at the seat of his pain.  _And_ _as x is to y, then is a to b..._ But it's different this time, it's  _more_  than that now. A familiar ache enflames his bones, and _s_ _uddenly he just feels so tired..._

"I... But..." France falters then, and defaults back to reason. "You  _knew_  something like this would have to happen, sooner or later."

"Mnh." Arthur's sigh is cold and detached. The breeze carries it away.

"England..." He doesn't respond, and there's a sudden seize of desperation. "England, listen to me. Things always get worse before they get better, you know that!" France reaches and grasps ahold of his hand, but it's wretched away as though burnt.

"Don't  _touch_  me," Arthur snarls, finally meeting his gaze. His eyes are glazed over with flagrant contempt, and all France can see in them is  _England_. Humanity is drowning, and he wonders when, if, they will see it again.

 _England, the heart of this great British Empire..._  It stalks from the balcony with brisk, angry steps, leaving the other secluded. France swears he can hear something, a final whispered, spatten word as this parasitic  _consensus_  that infects his beloved's corps dissipates from sight.

" _Sodomite_." It rings hollowly in his ears.


End file.
